


Shattered Glass Smiles

by janeausten



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, In which the year is 1959 and everybody has guns, feysand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janeausten/pseuds/janeausten
Summary: In which the year is 1959, Feyre is engaged to Senator Tamlin Greene, and Rhysand is the head of a notorious mafia dynasty called the Night Court.





	1. Hide Your Bruises, Senator's Wife

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic for this siter! (Trying out something new, lol.) This is the kickoff of a mafia AU, because I'm a sucker for mafia scenarios that probably did not ever exist in reality, and the 1960s are an excellent era for crime. Let me know what you think! (Warnings may change at a later date)

-1-

**"Hide Your Bruises, Senator's Wife"**

Sometimes I wondered what my life could have been—if there was ever a time, a place, where I did not go to sleep with a knife tucked beneath my pillow, a loaded gun on my bedside table.

Some people, I was told, kept books on their nightstands—candles, reading glasses; half-empty mugs of tea.

Rhys and I put our guns and knives on our nightstands. Burner phones tucked in the drawer, emergency first-aid kits open on the surface, half a dozen passports in a hidden compartment; cash for fifteen different countries in a miniature safe.

Maybe there was a life where I slept through the night, where I knew what it was to be happy and unafraid.

But that was not this life.

Rhysand handed me the gun that day, but I already knew how to shoot.

***

**November 1959**

**Westhampton, New York**

God, I hated these parties.

The car drew up to the curb, Hart's gloved hands twisting the wheel. "Here you are, Mr. Greene," he said, grinning at us in the rearview mirror.

Tamlin smiled at him. He'd donned his senator's smile tonight, polished and smooth: golden hair cropped and parted, teeth even and white, shoulders broad, chin dimpled. "Thank you," he said, checking his watch. "Pick us up at—eleven-thirty, say?"

"Better make it midnight," Lucien said, straightening the lapels of his jacket, immaculate as they already were.

I winced, though neither of them noticed. The idea of staying at this function until midnight was enough to set my teeth on edge, but—it was campaigning, I reminded myself. For Tamlin, for the next election.

"Midnight, then," Tamlin amended.

Hart nodded, easing out of the car to open the door for us. Tamlin stepped out onto the curling drive leading to the Hampton estate first, Lucien hot on his heels. I was last, grabbing fistfuls of my dress.

"Thank you, Hart," I said, offering him a weak smile.

He tipped his cap to me, cheeks a bit flushed, and shut the door with a snap, heading back for the wheel.

I paused for a moment, inhaling. The night air felt good on my skin, cold and bitter and brisk, full of November bite, grounded by the stars' faint, present glow.

A hand ghosted along my back, the faint scent of nighttime erased by the stronger, more pervasive aroma of Tamlin's cologne. "You look lovely tonight."

"You look rather handsome yourself," I said, tweaking his tie a bit. I hated this dress; it was sequined and glittering, cut high at the collarbone and long-sleeved; demure and flashy at the same time. But Tamlin liked me in it, had bought the dress for me, so I wore it.

"I know you don't like these sorts of things," he said as we started down the drive to the mansion. I could hear the murmur of voices and clink of glasses from here, the naked rosebushes and topiaries stark. "Though, of course, neither do I.”

"I'm to be a senator's wife, aren't I?" I said, looking down at the ring on my finger. Emerald, enormous—glaring. I let my hand drop. "If it's the price to pay for being with you, I'll gladly pay it."

Something softened in his gaze, and Lucien cleared his throat a few feet away. "We're here," he said, mounting the steps to the front door.

"Subtle," Tamlin said, shooting his friend a look.

"I strive," Lucien said, pressing the doorbell.

I adjusted the wrap around my shoulders, shivering a bit, and Tamlin's hand slid from the small of my back to the crook of my waist.

I couldn't quite hide my wince, though, at the small, faint bruises there, and his hand dropped immediately, his features going blank.

But before I could apologize, the door swung open—a butler, clad in a glossy black suit, smiling at us. "Hello," he said.

Lucien pulled the invitations out of his jacket. "Senator Greene," he said, jerking his head at Tamlin, "his fiancee, Feyre Archeron, and Lucien Vanserra."

"Of course," the butler said, admitting us inside. We shrugged off our coats, handing it to him. "Right this way."

We followed him through the hallways, all paneled with mahogany, the floors covered in thick, plush Persian carpets. It was dark inside the house, heavy and gothic, and I felt my chest tightening, the walls pressing in—

Lucien glanced back at me and slowed his steps a bit, coming to walk by my side with Tamlin ahead. "Breathe," he muttered.

I glared at him. "I'm trying my best," I snapped, careful to keep my voice low.

Lucien just looked at me again, but he didn't walk any faster. He stayed by my side as we eased our way into a large, opulent room full of other guests, all donned in silks and satins and pearls.

_Campaigning. Next election._

I breathed out through my nose, and the butler disappeared, leaving me with the wolves. Jesus _fuck,_ I hated these parties. I didn't think I could say that out loud, though.

The room was enormous, with long banquet tables piled with appetizers, servers walking around with hors d'oeuvres. Tamlin snagged three champagne glasses for us, and I took a healthy sip of mine, ignoring Lucien's reproving glower.

It was six-thirty. I could make it, what—six and a half hours? At least an hour or so would be occupied by eating. I could do that. I liked food.

Despite the fact that I hadn't had much of an appetite lately.

The owner of the house, Ianthe, came sashaying up to us, smiling brightly. "Tamlin, I'm so glad you could make it," she said, clasping his hands and kissing him once on each cheek. My shoulders eased—I liked Ianthe, a childhood friend of Tamlin's. She moored me during these parties, took the helm of conversations, guided me through the treacherous waters of socialite politics. She was an heiress herself, and a frequent visitor at Tamlin's penthouse on Park Avenue.

Lucien, on the other hand, went rigid, draining his champagne and moving past, muttering something about going to find more.

Tamlin frowned after Lucien, but he was distracted by Ianthe swooping in on me. I stiffened as her arms closed around me—as a cloud of golden hair enveloped me, the scent of hairspray overpowering, and fought not to thrash to get free—

She pulled back, smiling, and I forced myself to smile back. "You look gorgeous tonight," Ianthe said. "That dress is positively divine." She winked at me. "I helped Tam pick it out, you know."

"I... didn't," I said slowly, glancing at Tamlin.

"Ianthe helps me with these kinds of things all the time," Tamlin said, waving his hand. "I hardly know what to buy you most days."

I plastered a smile on my face, determined to keep it there—the senator's wife smile I'd been grooming for the past few months. "I suppose I have you to be grateful for, then."

She linked her arm through mine. "Tam, Governor Richards is right over there. I'm going to steal your adorable fiancee for myself."

Tamlin chuckled. "Have fun," he said, waving us off and heading over to a white-haired man in an appallingly beige suit in the corner.

"So, Feyre," said Ianthe. "How is the wedding planning?"

I shrugged. "You've done most of it," I said, tugging at my sleeve. "You probably know more than I do."

"No new surprises? Well, that's good." She paused to give an incline of her head to a woman in a plum-colored dress. "Weddings can be so tricky—especially for people like us."

"People like us?"

"People determined to do it right," she clarified. "There is a wrong way and a right way to have a wedding, Feyre, and those small, inexpensive affairs—" She sniffed. "That, my dear, is the wrong way."

I tucked a curl behind my ear. "Oh."

Ianthe paused, frowning slightly as she accepted a shrimp from a server. I shook my head, thanking the server, who smiled at me before walking off. "Where’s Lucien gone, anyhow?"

"Ah..." I trailed off. I couldn't say what I was thinking: that Lucien, for reasons unknown to me, despised Ianthe, and had likely fled when faced with the prospect of polite conversation with her. "The restroom?"

Just then, the doors to the room opened again, and the butler walked in—but this time, he wasn't smiling. In fact, he was rather pale.

"I think—" I started, but the butler was already coming our way.

"Excuse me, miss," the butler said to Ianthe, "but there's someone at the door, insisting rather loudly that he's come to see you. Several someones, as a matter of fact."

Ianthe took a sip from her champagne glass. "What are you standing there for? Send them in, Bron. We don’t want to be rude.”

"Not more guests," Bron said. A sheen of sweat glistened at his temples, and he glanced at me warily. "It—they're members of the Night Court. Here to see about a debt owed."

Crash.

The champagne flute slid, neatly, slickly, from Ianthe's fingers, shattering on the ground.

Conversation halted, and people turned to stare at Ianthe, who'd gone white as parchment paper.

"Who?" Ianthe hissed, grabbing onto Bron's wrist. "Which members of the Night Court?"

"Morrigan," Bron sputtered, wetting his lips. "And..."

"And who?"

"Ianthe," I murmured, noticing the blatantly curious stares. "Maybe—"

But at that moment, two shadowed shapes filled the doorway where Bron had stood just moments before, framed by mahogany and crystal, illuminated by light leaking from Tiffany stained-glass lamps.

One of them was unfamiliar to me. A woman, clad not in a dress but a pair of black silk pants and a glittering sweater cut to the navel, golden curls spilling out over her shoulders in a sea of cold sunshine.

But the other…

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Amethyst-eyed, dressed impeccably, grinning like a wolf in the sheep's den.

Which, I supposed, he was.

"Ianthe," he purred, sliding his hands in his pockets. "I've come to collect."

I forced myself to freeze—to still the breaths in my chest. I turned my head, slowly, letting my hair fall over my cheek, obscuring my profile from view.

"Rhysand," Tamlin growled, stepping forward from the corner.

"Hello, Tammie," Rhysand said, with a smile I remembered—a smile that blanketed a layer of ice over my still-beating heart.

I did not move. I did not speak.

Hopefully—hopefully, he wouldn’t notice me.

_Please, God, don’t let him notice me._

“Rhysand,” Ianthe said, wetting her lips and forcing a smile upon her pasty cheeks. “I’m so glad you could make it.” She laughed, high and clear, and surrounding observers turned back to their chitchat and appetizers, shooting us curious glances.

“Ianthe,” he said pleasantly. “Nice party.”

Somehow, I didn’t think he believed it was a particularly nice party at all.

She inclined her head.

"Lovely curtains," Rhysand drawled, running his fingers along the edge of a heavy brocade curtain in a violent shade of yellow that was not, in fact, lovely at all.

"They're antique," said Ianthe.

"Hmm." Rhysand turned toward her, that implacable smile unmoving. "Do you want to do this with an audience, or can you direct me to a less..." He observed the room, lip curling. "Populated arena, so to speak."

"There's a parlor," Ianthe said quickly. She patted my elbow. "Feyre, dearest, I'll be right back. If you could just—"

But Rhysand had gone still, every muscle and bone in his body rippling with tension.

He’d noticed me, then. Ianthe had said my name.

"Feyre, is it?" he asked me quietly.

I met his gaze with as much courage as I could muster. "Hello."

Rhysand's lips peeled back—peeled back, as if he were a feral animal. I was reminded, absurdly, of a leopard I had seen prowling his cage in a zoo years ago, back and forth, back and forth, claws barely restrained.

"Were you going to say anything?" he asked. "I wonder."

"Don't bother," I replied, words tumbling out of my mouth. "I wasn't."

Something raced through my veins—a challenge. A beckoning. _Fuck you, Rhysand,_ I thought, reveling, for a moment, in feeling larger than an ant tottering along the cracks in the sidewalk.

And then—

A hand closed on my elbow. Tightly. I snapped my lips shut to hide a wince.

"Enough," Tamlin rumbled in my ear. To Rhysand, he said, "Get away from her."

Rhysand's face didn't alter a millimeter. He didn't so much as glance at Tamlin. "Possessive, are we?"

Tamlin took a threatening step forward. "You—"

Lucien flicked his gaze between Tamlin and Rhysand, the color rapidly draining from his cheeks. He looked as if he'd swallowed an olive whole, pit and all.

"Goodbye, Feyre," Rhysand said. A muscle ticking in his jaw was the only sign he felt afflicted at all. "It's been a pleasure, as always."

"I wish I could say the same," I replied, Tamlin's hand taut and tight.

Rhysand didn't respond. Instead, he pivoted on his foot and strode from the room, the woman—Morrigan—beside him, just as icy and elegant. Rhysand loved his dramatics, I thought, something vile swirling and ebbing in my stomach.

"Ianthe," Tamlin said. "What the hell—"

"Not now." Ianthe's lips barely moved.

Tamlin growled, releasing me and shoving me backwards a step as he stalked over to Ianthe, demanding something in low, furious tones.

I needed—air. It was too hot in the room, stuffy enough that I felt bottled-in, caught in a box of glass, hands pressed to the panes, breath fogging—

I didn't look at Lucien, didn't speak to Tamlin, as I left the room abruptly, sequins scratching my ankles.

I wasn't stupid enough to take the hallway that Rhys and Mor had used, and I soon became lost in a matrix of corridors and flickering sconces. The house was medieval, dark wood and russet tones, pressing and suffocating and—

My hands met the polished slab of a door. Shoving it open, I expected to meet more damask and lacquer, but instead...

Fresh air, scented faintly with sea brine and pine. Cold and sharp enough to purge some sickness from my chest, clearing out my throat. I leaned down, propping my hands on my knees, and counted my breaths. _One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four..._

I scrabbled inside my handbag, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a matchbox, and lit up, inhaling smoke. The acrid scent of tobacco grounded me, reminded me where I stood. It made me think of Nesta, curled up in an armchair with a box of Camels at her side, and Elain, wrinkling her nose. _Nest-aa_ , she'd whine. _Put it out. They smell awful._

Rhysand. I hadn't expected to see him ever again—had thought I'd buried him in that cellar with the rest of my demons.

But like the rest of my demons, he'd risen from the dead, nipping at my heels and forcing me to take notice. I'm not gone, he seemed to say. And you can't forget me.

"Feyre?" A familiar voice—Lucien.

I didn't speak as he walked up to me, soles of his shoes scuffing on the pavement. "Are you—smoking?"

"What of it?" I said, blowing out a stream of gray smoke.

"I didn't know you smoked," he said. What he meant was that Tamlin preferred his women bereft of cigarettes—tobacco was a man's luxury, at least according to him; it was unseemly for women to smoke. He never stooped to Marlboros or Pall Malls, though, preferring instead expensive cigars.

"Surprise."

Lucien didn't say anything as he came to stand beside me. I knew he wanted me to ask about Tamlin, but I—wouldn't. Or perhaps couldn't. Either way.

"Can I have one?" he said at last.

I started, raising my brows. Wordlessly, I handed him a lit cig, watching him inhale in a smooth, practiced movement.

"I hate these parties," he said finally.

"So do I."

"You'll have to host them someday, you know," he said. "It'll be expected of a senator's wife."

 _Expected._ Everyone, these days, seemed to _expect_ things from me. It wasn't enough to wear my own smile, my own face, to speak the words that came from my own mouth. It wasn't enough to be _me_. Politics was a world of tailors, of taking in and letting out, adjusting and sewing and stitching back up until none of the original, fallible human beneath remained.

"Where's Tamlin?" I asked, breaking my initial pact.

"Inside," he said. "Mingling."

I took a drag, shivering a bit in the cold.

Lucien shrugged off his jacket. "Here," he said, handing it to me. "You look cold."

"Thank you," I said, shrugging it on one sleeve at a time. It was comically large on me, and I had to roll up the sleeves, but it was warm. I sat down on a rock as Lucien slouched against the trunk of a manicured tree, both of us lost with roaming thoughts and smoke.

He didn't ask if I was alright, how I felt about seeing Rhysand for so long, but that was fine. Lucien knew the answers, anyway.

"Let's stay out here for a little," I said.

Lucien nodded, and I peered up at the stars, counting them one-by-one, as I had when I was a little girl and had trouble falling asleep.

***

I didn't see Rhysand again before we left.

He, Morrigan, and Ianthe retired to some ostentatious front parlor. Ianthe reemerged midway through the party, white-lipped, and I heard the rumble of an expensive car announcing his departure.

Tamlin, predictably, was furious with Lucien and I. _This is my career,_ he'd hissed, _and you just walked off. Do either of you care?_

I'd borne his rage with a bowed head and silence, just as I took all his tidal waves of anger. Most of them washed over me, leaving me battered but still intact. And if a piece of driftwood or two snagged my skin—well, it was a superficial wound.

When Bron handed me back my coat and I put my hand in the pocket, my fingers met crumpled paper.

Nothing had been in my pockets when I’d arrived at the party. Someone had left me a note.

I didn't dare to bring it out in front of Tamlin and Lucien. Instead, I waited for the relative security of my dressing room back at the penthouse before retrieving it, smoothing the paper out on my vanity.

Clear, graceful script. Simple words, though my blood still boiled—Rhysand knew I couldn't read, or was mostly-illiterate. It took me near twenty minutes to figure out the six-word message.

Don't forget our deal, Feyre darling.

Beneath was a phone number, and Rhysand’s name.

I considered ignoring it—and shelved that idea. Clearly, if Rhysand's visitation to Ianthe's party was any indication, he could call in his dues whether I called him or not. I had no idea what Ianthe owed him—I hadn't even known she had any sort of connection to Rhysand and his ilk—but it didn't matter. Big or small, Rhysand collected debts like some people collect stamps, or coins, or miniatures statuettes. And he did not forget them.

I tucked the message and the phone number into my jewelry box, slipping into bed beside Tamlin.

He rolled over, already asleep, and wrapped his arms around my waist, nestling his chin into the crook of my neck.

 _To be collected at a later date,_ Rhysand had said that day.

It seemed that later date had arrived.

 


	2. Pistol in My Pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Rhysand hash out a deal. (Warning for brief violence.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys SO MUCH for the positive response!!! I'm touched beyond words!!! :D <3 <3

 

**-2-**

**"Pistol in My Pocket"**

The next morning, Tamlin rose from our bed at eight o'clock sharp, stumbling around our room as he yanked on his suit.

He spent most days at his campaign office in midtown, speaking to his PR manager and refining the finer points of his policies. I'd asked to visit once, but he'd just patted my head.  _ Politics isn't the place for a woman,  _ he'd said, and I hadn't argued.

"I'll see you tonight," he said now, kissing my cheek. His chin was freshly-shaven, and he smelled of Old Spice and cloying aftershave. He pulled on his overcoat. "I love you."

"I love you, too," I said. A knee-jerk reaction, an automatically programmed response, like a practiced driver's tendency to brake at the sight of a traffic accident.

He smiled at me, slinging his briefcase through his fingers, and left the room. A far-off door shut, and I exhaled: he was gone.

I stayed in bed for a while longer, tracing shadows and patterns of light across the ceiling. No one would be home for another few hours—the maid, Alis, didn't come to the penthouse until ten.

I had no idea how long Rhysand would extend my grace period. He wasn't stupid; he knew I'd find the note in my coat pocket. How long was he prepared to wait—one day, maybe two?

Ruffling a hand through my hair, I rose from my bed, knotting a wrap around my shoulders. Retrieving the crumpled note from my dressing room, I lifted the phone, my mouth dry.

I dialed.  _ One-eight-four-seven-six... _

I waited. And waited.

And then—

"Hello?" It wasn't Rhysand's voice that answered; it was someone female, with a slight accent that I couldn't quite place. I didn't say anything at first, deprived of words. The person on the other end huffed. "Who the hell is this?"

That spurred me into action, a rough kick to the sternum, if only by shock factor. I'd been in the world of politics so long that I'd forgotten what a rough, unapologetically pissed-off voice sounded like. "Is this the residence of Rhysand Black?"

A rustle of fabric. "Depends. Who's asking?"

I took a deep breath.  _ Here goes nothing.  _ "This is Feyre Archeron," I said. "Tell Rhysand that I got his little note, and I haven't forgotten. I'll be at the Trefoil Arch in Central Park at noon. Then he can call in his dues."

I hung up, my hand shaking.

The oddest thing was—

I felt more myself than I had in  months, since I'd come back to Tamlin's apartment. I felt alive, charged with the vitality that came with doing something  _ productive _ . Not planning parties, not shopping for dresses I didn't need, not lying on the chaise in the penthouse, drowning in memories I wanted nothing more than to forget.

Tamlin didn't allow me to lift a finger, didn't let me leave the apartment, especially since last spring.

"New York is dangerous, Feyre," he'd said. "We live in the Upper East Side, but the West Side is fraught with gangs and drugs. They'd like nothing more than to use you up and leave you in a back alleyway."

"Nice, Tam," I'd snapped.

His face had softened somewhat. "I'm trying to protect you, Feyre. You're not strong enough to walk through New York on your own. Not without me, or Lucien."

I'd wanted to fight back—wanted to tell him that I might have spent my early childhood in a fancy house in coastal Massachusetts, but from the age of eight and upward, I waded knee-deep in Boston's shit. When I was fourteen years old, and the last of the money ran out, I walked to the gun store on the corner and asked our drunkard next-door neighbor to teach me how to shoot. I practiced: fired at dented Coke cans in the backyard again and again and again, until my ears felt like they were bleeding and my mouth tasted of smoke, and then I tucked my gun into my boot, shoved beneath the cuff of my jeans, and got myself three jobs.

I rang up groceries at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, waited tables at a greasy diner, and later, when I turned fifteen and there still wasn't enough money to go around, I stripped on a dull metallic pole.

I'd dropped out of school at fourteen, not that the schools that we'd been enrolled in taught me much. I could barely read: no one had taken the time to teach me.

Tamlin had found me like that—worn, beaten thin as pounded gunmetal, walking around a metal pole. 

He'd been in the audience of the strip club one night. I'd been nineteen, and he'd come with five or six of his work associates; fellow politicians networking over shitty cocktails and tight asses.

I still didn't know what about me had caught his attention. I was like every other girl in the place: tired, worn out, singing the same old song of tough luck. I stripped for my sisters, slipping into a different skin to bring home a fistful of dollars so that Elain could have a new winter coat, and Nesta a pair of shoes.

Evidently, Tamlin had seen something in me, and he'd come back the next night, and the next. And after he'd been coming back for weeks, and he asked me for a drink, I thought of the pocket knife in my jeans and the gun in my bag, and said, wryly,  _ Sure. _

Still, when Tamlin said I wasn't strong enough to walk the streets of New York, I hadn't argued. I'd learned my lesson last spring, and now I watched the hustle and bustle from a penthouse balcony, a million miles away.

I looked at the telephone, half-expecting it to ring again. It didn't.

Come twelve o'clock, I would stand on the middle of the Trefoil Arch and wait to hear my fate.

—

When I told Alis that I was going out for a few hours, she seemed confused.

I genuinely liked Alis, which was more than I could say for most of Tamlin's extensive staff. A middle-aged woman with coffee-brown skin and warm, if cynical, eyes, her friendship had been hard-won but well worth the effort.

She lived down in Harlem and took the subway back and forth from Park Avenue every day. Once, I'd tried to get Tamlin to send a car for her, especially at night, but he'd given me an odd look. "Alis doesn't want our pity, Feyre," he'd said. "She'll think it's strange. People like her are used to walking the streets after dark."

I tugged my gloves on now, fur brushing my wrists. November in New York meant a chill that sank into my bones and red-gold leaves that danced in late autumn's cold exhales, and I'd donned a camel-hair coat, a woolen skirt, and a pair of black pumps, my hair tucked beneath a round hat.

"You're going out?" Alis said.

"Yes."

"I thought that Mr. Greene didn't like you to leave the apartment."

"He doesn't," I said, and bit my lip. "Alis, I need to... to do a few things. Today."

Something like recognition flickered in her eyes. "And you don't want me to tell him?"

"I'll be back by three," I said. "Three-thirty at the latest."

Alis studied me for a moment, her lips pursed. I'd lost weight rapidly since spring, and I saw her track my bony frame; my sallow, sunken cheeks.

"Take care of yourself," she said at last.

I nodded, fighting past a sudden lump that rose in my throat, and stepped out the door, pressing the button for the elevator.

On the curb, I hailed a taxi to take me to seventy-third street, wringing my hands. It was eleven-thirty; I was early, but I still had to fight past the anxiety tossing and turning my stomach.

Last spring, I'd been kidnapped, held in a cellar with other victims. Rhysand had saved my life, but he hadn't done it for free—he'd done it for a favor.

What if Rhysand asked for something that I couldn't give? He delighted in wrecking lives. Perhaps he'd force me to leave Tamlin, or kill Lucien, or something equally as obscene.

I had not gone those long months spent as a hostage without learning a bit about Rhysand Black, primarily that he was the head of a very old, very wicked crime dynasty notorious for its cruelty. He might well decide to shoot me in the middle of Central Park and call it even.

But that, I thought, fingers brushing the tiny pistol in my pocket, was why I'd come prepared.

Tamlin didn't know I still had a gun. I imagined if he did, he'd throw a fit—scream and shout and yell, and I'd wake up the next morning with fresh bruises and an aching in my bones. I hid the pistol in a locked box in my unmentionables drawer, buried beneath brasseries and stockings and pantyhose.

If Rhysand wanted to shoot me, fine. I'd shoot him right back.

—

The Trefoil Arch was a bridge tucked in the midst of Central Park, shadowed and enclosed by a copse of burnished oak boughs. I arrived at eleven-thirty, half an hour early.

Rhysand was already there.

He stood beneath the bridge, something out of a gothic novel; clad in a black coat that brushed against his ankles, a slim gray tie peeking out from his immaculately ironed shirt. He paced back and forth beneath the bridge, muttering to himself, raking a gloved hand through his styled hair.

I froze.

Unexpectedly, something my mother used to say came back to me, over a decade after her death.

_ The first step's the hardest _ , she'd say.  _ Downhill or uphill, you already know how to walk. _

_ One foot in front of the other. One step, two, three, four... _

"Rhysand," I said.

His head snapped up. And for a moment—a hairsbreadth of a millisecond—I thought I saw something like nervousness, like pain, flit across his features, but then it was gone, replaced by the suave smile I knew so well.

"Feyre," he said. "You got my note."

"I got your note, you asshole," I snapped. "What do you want?"

Rhysand didn't answer; instead, he eyed my figure. "You've lost weight."

"What's it to you?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he set his jaw and said, "Let me take you to lunch."

I laughed.  _ Laughed. _

Rhysand's expression grew stony.

"You must be out of your mind if you think I'm going to lunch with you," I said. "I have a pistol in my pocket, Rhysand. I'm not stupid."

"You brought a gun?"

"Didn't you?"

"Yes," he said, "but that's because my profession requires that I always wear a gun, even to bed, and I know how to use it."

"I know how to fire, Rhysand."

He took a step forward, eyes flashing. "But do you know how to aim?"

"Haven't missed yet."

Rhysand stared at me for a moment. "Tell me, Feyre, when have you had occasion to aim a gun? And just what—or who—was on the receiving end of your barrel?"

"Fuck off," I snarled, the bolt hitting too close—too deep. And he knew it, too.

"Interesting," he mused. "Does Senator Greene know about this particular piece of your oh-so-checkered past?"

I glared at him. "What do you want from me, Rhysand? I got your note. I made a meeting."

"For that matter," he continued, "does Tamlin dearest know about our deal—our clandestine rendezvous?" He flicked his gaze up at the keyhole arch of the Trefoil. "It's terribly romantic. I'm swooning."

I rose my hand, grabbing a fistful of my hair in my fingers. "You—"

"What's on your wrist?"

My camel-hair coat had ridden up, exposing a ring of purple-blue splotches. Bruises, left by Tamlin's quick, strong fingers.

"Nothing." I shucked down my sleeve, cheeks burning, but Rhysand stalked toward me, something other than amusement taking root at last.

"Are those bruises?" he demanded.

"No."

"Liar," he said.  _ "Liar." _

"So what?" I said. "It's not your business."

Rhysand's eyes flashed. "Bullshit."

"The bruises on my arm and the numbers on the scale have nothing to do with you, Rhysand. You have no part in my life—and nor will you ever."

"Has it ever occurred to you that I might care?"

"You don't care about anyone," I said coldly.

"You don't even know me," Rhysand growled, sounding uncharacteristically hostile. "Is Tamlin the one that left those bruises?"

"Piss off."

A muscle in Rhysand's cheek jumped, pulsing erratically, and silence settled between us, toxic and weighted.

"Come to lunch with me."

"I'm not going anywhere—"

"You owe me," he reminded me quietly. "You have my word that I will not try anything. I will take you somewhere public, and somewhere safe. But I will watch you eat five bites of a sandwich before I say anything about our deal."

I glowered at him.

"If I try anything," he said, "you have my full permission to shoot me."

—

Rhysand took me to a café a few blocks from the park, dimly-lit and brimming with the tinkling of forks and jazz Muzak. I ordered a roast beef sandwich and sipped at my iced tea, staring daggers at Rhysand over the condiment bottles.

"I want," he said, "you to work for me."

I'd taken a swallow of my drink, and I sputtered it all over the table, showering him in regurgitated amber liquid.

He took a napkin and wiped his forehead, unbothered. "You're smart," he said. It wasn't a question. "And brave. I have uses for your talents."

"You're a criminal," I retorted. "No. Absolutely not."

His lips quirked. "Has it ever occurred to you that I might not be a merciless killer?"

"No."

"Excellent," he said. "Well, rest assured that I'm not. And the kind of jobs I'd have you working wouldn't be... crime-oriented."

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Work for me," he said, "and you'll find out."

The server arrived with my plate, setting it in front of me. Immediately, my stomach rebelled: the bread looked stale, the meat dry.

I took a chip, instead, washing it down with a swallow of tea. I looked up to find Rhysand studying me, his mouth tight.

"I won't work for you," I said. "Pick something else."

"It's not indefinite. One job. Work one job for me, and I'll walk out of your life—forever."

"No."

Rhysand leaned forward, irises glittering like trapped beads of amethyst in a glass case at a museum. "You made a deal," he said. "Are you intending to go back on your word?"

"I'm going to be a senator's wife, Rhysand, and you know it. I can't break the law. That can't possibly be your price for choosing not to be an abominable dickhead."

His gaze dropped to the ring on my left hand. "Ah. Yes. The engagement emerald. I'd noticed." He smiled, but the glint of his teeth had a bitter edge. "When's the wedding?"

"March. Not that you're invited."

"Pity," he said. "And here I was, expecting to be made best man. Ring bearer, at least. I'm ever-so-talented at carrying a little velvet pillow."

I took a bite of my sandwich. It wasn't that bad, actually; a pickle gave it a nice crunch. I hadn't eaten real food in... Christ, in ages.

"I won't work for you," I said.

"Give it forty-eight hours of thought," he said. "Think about it, Feyre. I won't make you break any laws. Not any decent laws, anyway. The legislature of our fair country is full of loopholes."

"Forty-eight hours,” I said disbelievingly. 

"Forty-eight hours," Rhysand confirmed. "And if the answer is still no, then..." He lifted a shoulder. "We'll reevaluate."

I heard the unspoken words beneath his statement loud and clear:  _ You might not like what else I'll come up with. _

—

**May 1959**

**The Cellar**

I’d been close to death before. 

I knew fear, and I knew mortality. But it was different, this time, to lie on the cellar floor, staring up at a dank, damp ceiling crawling with mold, and know, with iron certainty, that I was going to die.

The other girls in the cellar were weeping, holding each other. I had refused to cry, at least in front of an audience, but their vigil of tears was neverending: night and day, for hours at a time, a siren’s song of lamentation that never ended.

The door opened, and abruptly, the girls stopped crying.

I did not look up. My breaths were papery rasps.

“Shit,” someone said, voice distorted.  _ “Shit.” _

And then someone was kneeling beside me—a doctor. Someone in a white coat, with a bottle of medicine and materials for a splint. For a broken arm— _ my  _ broken arm.

But he was not alone, I realized, as the faces finally stabilized. There was a doctor, and a man with purple eyes.

“Go away,” I croaked out.

“Do you want me to save your life,” Rhysand said, “or not?”

His words came to me through a wind tunnel, distorted and distended.

“You’ll owe me a favor,” he said. “But you will not die.”

I closed my eyes and nodded. 

—

**November 1959**

**New York, New York**

When I arrived back at the penthouse, Tamlin was waiting for me.

And he was  _ furious.  _

He sat on an armchair in the living room, his hands clenched so tightly over the armrests that his nails dug holes in the fabric.

Alis was nowhere in sight.

"I thought I'd come home for lunch," he said, "and surprise you."

I didn't move from the doorframe, every nerve and muscle in my body coated in impenetrable ice. 

"Imagine  _ my  _ surprise," he said, "to find that you've gone out." He rose in a slick, smooth movement that made me recoil instinctively. "Where have you been, Feyre? What did I tell you about walking by yourself in New York?"

"I survived," I said, and hated— _ hated _ —that my voice trembled.

"You never should have gone out in the first place."

"I had to do something."

"Oh? Like what?"

I had no intention of telling Tamlin I'd gone to see Rhysand. He'd hated Rhysand long before last spring, long before he had anything to do with me, for reasons that he still refused to divulge.

"I don't have to tell you everything that goes on in my life."

"Actually, yes, you do," he said. "I'm your husband, Feyre, or close enough to it. I should know everything that goes on in your life. And furthermore, as your husband, you should not  _ disobey me _ !" He stalked across the floor, grabbing my shoulder, and I could almost  _ feel _ the new bruises appearing, blooming on my skin like a tattoo of forget-me-not blossoms over my shoulder.

"Let go of me," I said. "You are not my president, god, or king, and I do not owe you any absolution."

Silence.

I began to shake, trembling under my layers of wool and fur. "I need your  _ help _ , Tamlin. I have not been able to breathe since May— _ for months _ —and I need your  _ help _ ."

Tamlin's chest rose and fell, heaving.

"Locking me up," I whispered, "telling me to sit and stay and lie down like a dog, trapping me in here with nothing but my mind—"

"Trapping you?" he cried, throwing an arm out at the plush carpet, the damask curtains. "I wasn't aware that this sort of luxury was a hardship. Especially considering the hellhole I dragged you out of, wading in your own shit."

"It's not the luxury that matters! For Christ's sake, Tamlin, can't you  _ listen _ to me, instead of being personally affronted by the insult to your  _ apartment _ ?"

"No," he said. "You're just confused, Feyre."

"Fuck you," I said, without even realizing the words were tumbling out of my mouth.  _ "Fuck you." _

In retrospect, I really should've seen it coming.

Later, it came to me in pieces:

A  _ crack, _

a stinging in my cheek,

my head smacking back against the threshold of the door,

a roaring in my ears.

And Tamlin's white, stunned face before me, his still-upraised hand.

"Shit," he said. " _ Shit. _ Feyre, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

My mouth tasted like cotton.

I didn't fight him as he brought me to his chest, limp and disjointed as a rag doll. I let him soothe his own aches and pains, and I let mine sting and fester on.

Words sat between us, strung on a sickly telephone wire of disease. Words that could not heretofore be unspoken, unsaid, erased.

But we did our best. We knotted our fingers hand-in-hand, ignoring the slap and the  _ crack _ and the truths that ate me up inside, and painted over the piece of me that did not want to become a wooden doll.

_ Sit. Stay. Lie down. _

_ Sit. _

_ Stay. _

_ Lie down. _

—

The next morning, while Tamlin still lay in bed, I rose from the mattress, bereft of clothes and shaking with cold.

I walked into the dressing room, shutting the door with a soft, muted snick.

I took the piece of yellow paper out of my jewelry box, lifted the phone from its receiver, and dialed.

This time, Rhysand did answer.

"Hello?" His voice was groggy, still rough with sleep. When I didn't answer, I heard a long, breathy exhale. "Who is this?"

In the background, I heard another voice, this one distinctly male, call, "Who the fuck is calling at five am?"

"It's me," I said. "Feyre."

Rhysand went silent.

"I've thought about your offer," I continued, "and I accept."


	3. Bulls, Bullshit, and a Dog Named Bryaxis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre shows Rhysand just how well she can shoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back (after a hiatus that was completely unintentional)! I went on a family vacation on a somewhat remote island, and I didn't realize until I was there that there was not, in fact, wifi available, and I could not, in fact, update anything. Combine that with the fact that this is draft 4 (?) of this somewhat-choppy chapter, and we have the wait. Hopefully I'll be back to posting more regularly from now on!! 
> 
> Thanks so much to all the recs, comments, kudos, and notes on tumblr! Your support is amazing, and I can't thank you all enough!! :D
> 
> Slight warning in this chapter for brief recollection of assault and mention of slight domestic violence in previous chapter. Feel free to message me on tumblr (@janelizziemarykittylydia) if you have any questions!

**-3-**

**“Bulls, Bullshit, and a Dog Named Bryaxis”**

I said the words— _ I accept,  _ sitting in my dressing room, staring at my mirror.

I didn’t know what I’d expected. My experience with Rhysand Black, however limited, should have taught me not to expect anything: Rhysand was an unpredictable maelstrom, a sparking electrical wire; a fistful of clouds holding thunder.

But after I sealed my fate in a thick manila envelope  _ (I accept, I accept, I accept) _ , Rhysand only replied, “Tomorrow. Metropolitan Museum of Art, front entrance, nine am.”

And hung up. 

I rung again— _ give me more details, what the hell _ —but he didn’t pick up. Likely he knew it was me, and he wanted to preserve his air of mystique. 

Fucking Rhysand and his fucking dramatics.

The night Tamlin hit me, I didn’t go back to bed with him. I’d forgiven, but not forgotten: a cut marred my cheek from where it had hit the doorframe, and while last night might have been the first time Tam  _ struck  _ me, it was not the first time he left bruises on my body.

Tamlin loved me, and his temper was a volatile thing, not so much a product of true malignant intent as a short gunpowder fuse. But it was hard, sometimes, to remember his gentleness when all I could see when I looked in the mirror was a forget-me-not bruise on my cheekbone and a bandage near my eye. 

I opened the window above my vanity and lit a cigarette, chain-smoking until dawn. 

At seven in the morning, I came back to bed smelling like an ashtray. If Tamlin noticed, he didn’t say a word.

He kissed me goodbye as he left for work, whispering  _ I love you  _ in my ear.

“I love you, too,” I said, and wondered why the words, too, tasted of ash. 

***

I’d never been to the Met. I grew up in Boston, and I’d been to museums there, though rarely, but despite my months in New York City, I had never traveled the handful of blocks to the museum.

Back in April, I would have been thrilled. Now I hoped to God Rhysand didn’t ask me to go inside, where portraits would hiss accusations.

I sat on the front steps in the pouring rain, inhaling exhaust and cigarette smoke, as an elegant Aston Martin pulled up to the curb.  Someone opened the door, and Rhysand stepped out, wearing a Cheshire-Cat grin. 

It faded when he caught sight of me, in my too-loose clothes and my ratty hair, bandaged and bruised. 

“You don’t have an umbrella,” he said. “You’re soaked.”

“Afraid I’m going to ruin your upholstery?”

Rhysand smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze fastened on my Band-Aid. “Get into a bar brawl last night?”

“Tumbled down the stairs.”

“And hit your cheek? Must have been some fall.”

“It was.” I turned my attention toward the road. “Where are we going? I’ assume we’re not actually entering the Met, unless you’re planning to case the place.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not going to steal a Rembrandt, though it’s something to shelve for a later date.” 

“Christ,” I muttered. 

Rhysand popped open the passenger door, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

Part of me wanted to protest—wanted to fight back, and kick, and scream—but that part of me fell quiet, muted by the residual pain in my chest and cheek and chin. 

I got in the car.

Rhysand gave me a weighted look as merged the car into the center lane, his lips twisting downward. 

A pack of cigarettes sat on the center console, grabbing my attention. “Can I have one?” I asked, reaching for the box. 

“No smoking in my car.”

“Why do you have a pack of Lucky Strikes in here, then?” 

“Those aren’t my cigarettes; they’re my friend’s,” Rhysand clarified, taking a right. “Nobody smokes in my car.” 

But my attention had snagged on another detail. “You have friends?”

“Ha, ha,” he said dryly. “Your witticisms never fail to charm me. But yes, I do have friends, and I don’t smoke.”

“Bullshit. Everybody smokes.”

“Not me.” A cabbie slammed their fist on the horn, and Rhysand flipped them off. 

“Why not?” I knew I should be pressing the real question— _ where the hell were we going _ —but I couldn’t remember the last time I had met someone that abstained from nicotine, aside from the prissy girls in the ladies’ social groups Tamlin constantly egged me to join.

“Don’t like the smell,” he said, turning down an avenue lined with elegant brownstones and sodden pedestrians.

“I repeat: bullshit.”

He shrugged. “I’ll tell you the whole story sometime, if you want to hear it,” he said. “But not right now.”

“Next time?” I stared at him. “This is a one-shot deal.”

“Is it?” He slammed on the brakes as a little girl crossed the sidewalk, hop-scotching through pothole puddles, splashing her skirt. Her mother hurried after her, wet and scowling. “A heist takes more than one meeting to accomplish, you know.”

“A  _ heist _ ?”

“A coup. A caper, pilferage, act of flawless larceny.”

“Thanks for the Thesaurus. I was more concerned with the fact that I’m involved with a  _ heist _ .”

“What did you think you’d be doing? You’re working with me, after all.”

“Candyass.”

“Such vulgar slang,” he mused, sounding completely unbothered. “What  _ will  _ prospective voters think?”

“Fuck you.” 

“If that’s a proposition—”

My lips grew white. “It was not,” I said. “I would rather fuck a wall.”

“Sounds anatomically improbable,” Rhysand said, “but be my guest.”

I counted to ten silently in my head. When that didn’t work, I tried counting to fifty.

“I have a question,” Rhysand said, somewhere around thirty-three. “Yesterday, you refused to go anywhere that wasn’t a public setting in broad daylight with me. This morning, you didn’t care if you got into my car. Why?”

“We made a deal.”

“As you so eloquently put,” he drawled, “bullshit. We had a deal yesterday, too.”

“I still have a gun in  my pocket,” I reminded him. “And I still know how to shoot.”

“Again, you had a gun yesterday, too.”

“Enough.”

“I’m just—”

“Maybe,” I interrupted, “I was tired of not being able to trust anyone, alright?”

Rhysand’s mouth closed with an almost-audible  _ snap _ , momentarily startled into silence.

I didn’t say anything else, jaw working. 

“You can trust me, Feyre,” Rhys said at last, voice oddly hoarse. “I may be an ass, but we made a deal. I won’t hurt you. I swear on my sister’s grave.”

And it was that—that last bit—that snagged.

_ Sister’s grave. _

I didn’t know Rhys had a sister.

Then again, I didn’t know much about Rhysand at all.

Biologically, Rhysand had to have a family, but it was difficult to picture this broken boy with the bloodstained hands with a mother that read him bedtime stories at night. Then again, more often than not mothers were not around to read bedtime stories. My own mother had been too busy hosting dinner parties and downing whole bottles of champagne, taking spoonfuls ladanum at night that had less to do with aching joints and more to do with a love for opiates that drowned away the world. 

I didn’t reply. I just— _ looked  _ at him. Sister’s grave, indeed. 

“I’m taking you to a shooting range,” Rhys said, hands flexing on the wheel, easing away from treacherous waters that stung when pressed to our scars. “I’d like to know how accurate that aim of yours really is.”

***

The shooting range, as it turned out, was a private structure on the outskirts of an estate in upstate New York—an estate that belonged to Rhysand.

We drove through the Bronx, past crumbling tenements and clouds of sewage that hit too close to home, and into Westchester, driving north for about two hours.

Neither of us spoke. Raindrops slipped down the window, tires squealed on asphalt; chipmunks darted across the sidewalk. 

Rhysand wound through a series of turns that led us onto smaller and smaller lanes, until he eased onto a tiny one-lane dirt road, following hand-painted signs. Stark, leafless maple trees wove a net above us, casting dappled shadows onto the seats.

The rain had stopped. The world was quiet.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“One of my homes,” he answered.

“Homes. Plural.” 

“My line of work,” he said wryly, “is very lucrative.”

I rose a brow. “Crime  _ does  _ pay, apparently.”

“Not for petty criminals,” he allowed, “but for me, yes. Quite a bit.” 

He turned a left, and I opened my mouth, about to speak, but found myself suddenly incapable of words.

I had never thought about Rhysand Black’s house before, but the connotation brought images of blood-stained doors and Anne Boleyn’s head on a pike to mind.

But this—

This was—

The trees parted, revealing a quaint sage-green farmhouse, shutters painted black, flower boxes overflowing with wilted yellow mums. A weathervane swayed on the shingled roof, and in the rolling hills stretching out behind the farmhouse, I caught glimpses of a white barn, chicken coop, and goat pen.

A dog sprawled out on the deck. It lifted its head when Rhysand yanked the key out of the ignition, putting the car into park. 

“This can’t be your house,” I said.

“No?” He stepped out of the car, and the dog jumped to its feet, bolting over. It was enormous, big enough for a small child to ride, and shaggy. Rhysand grinned, kneeling on the ground to pet the beast.

“This is— _ domestic _ ,” I sputtered. “You’re the head of a goddamned crime syndicate. This can’t be your house.” 

“I don’t typically take business here,” he said dryly, kissing the top of the dog’s head.

I stared, quite certain I was hallucinating. Rhysand Black did not kiss dogs. He just—didn’t. That was something normal people did. Normal people, with souls and fully-functioning hearts. 

“Why the hell am I here, then? Aren’t I  _ business _ ?” 

Rhysand reached into his pocket, pulling out a dog treat (did he just walk around with little biscuits in his pocket? What kind of alternate universe had I stumbled  _ into _ ?). “Sit,” he told the dog solemnly.

The dog sat.

“Roll over.”

The dog rolled over.

“Good boy,” he crooned, allowing the dog to snap up the treat, woofing joyfully, tail batting Rhysand’s legs. 

“Rhysand,” I said in a warning tone.

“Feyre,” he mimicked. He rubbed the dog’s belly.

“Where are we?”

“I told you,” he said. A gust of wind swept over the grass, tossing up the collar of his peacoat and tousling his hair, black strands falling over his forehead. His skin had gotten darker since I’d seen him last May, no longer an unnatural alabaster, but a deep, rich caramel. “We’re at one of my homes.”

I just looked at him, uncomprehending.

He got to his feet, brushing off trampled blades of grass. “This is where I grew up,” he said. “Before my father started my training.”

I blinked. For such a simple statement, my mind spun with the influx of information—Rhys had grown up in a place like  _ this _ , a boy once, perhaps with a sister. And his father had trained him. For what? His current business?

Surely not.

Unless…

“Bryaxis, heel,” Rhysand said, whistling. The dog—Bryaxis—trotted to his feet, tongue lolling. I was beginning to reconsider my initial observation; I wasn’t even sure if the beast at Rhysand’s side could be qualified as a  _ dog.  _ It came up to Rhysand’s waist—Rhysand, who was almost six-foot-four, towering well over Tamlin. The creature was a blob of dark fur and claws and  _ fangs _ , a jaw strong enough to bite a person’s hand right off.

“What the fuck kind of breed is that?” I said, staring at the monster.

“I don’t know,” Rhysand said, completely unbothered. “Bryaxis came from a litter of my father’s bitch. I don’t know what her heritage was, and I don’t remember the sire.”

I narrowed my eyes at Bryaxis. He narrowed his eyes back at me.

I’d never had a pet before, barring the stray cat with rabies that wandered around our neighborhood in Boston, coined Scrunch by my sister Elain. Still, I knelt on the ground, holding my hand out. Waiting.

Something like surprise flickered across Rhysand’s features. Bryaxis trotted over, sniffing cautiously, and I pet the top of his head. He rubbed up against me, fur surprisingly soft.

“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” Rhysand said, looking at me oddly.

“Of course he doesn’t,” I said. “I can only imagine what kind of riffraff you subject him to.”

He laughed, the sound sudden and startled, and I smiled— _ genuinely smiled _ , even if just a little, more at Bryaxis than anyone else, for the first time in… God, in weeks. 

The smile pulled at the cut on the corner of my eye, and I winced, pressing my fingers to my forehead.

Rhysand stopped laughing. 

I had the sudden, irrational urge to cry, and I didn’t know why.

“Can I see?” he said. 

“What?” 

“Your cheek,” he said. “Beneath the bandage.”

I rose my hand to the scabby skin, uncomprehending. “See it? Why?”

“To make sure you’re all right,” he said. “If it hurts when you smile, whatever it is, it should probably be cleaned.” He frowned. “You  _ did  _ clean it, right?”

This time I was the one that laughed, a horrible, rusty sound. “I cleaned it,” I said. “Put some whiskey on a cloth and slapped it on the cut. Don’t worry.” I got to my feet, pointedly ignoring how Rhysand stiffened. “Where’s this shooting range? Point the way.”

He didn’t move. “Feyre.”

“Point the way,” I repeated, this time with vitriol. “Let’s go.”

Rhysand looked like he might say something else, but at the last minute, he shut his mouth and nodded. Still, something lurked in his eyes—something raw.

I didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he cared. 

“Lead the way,” I said again, gesturing before me.

He did.

***

The hills around the farmhouse might have appeared smooth and unobtrusive, but they were not. I struggled in the squelching mud, heels sinking into the grass.

“Mother _ fucker _ ,” I said, not for the first time.

“Language,” said Rhysand mildly, also not for the first time.

“Climb it, Tarzan,” I retorted, shoving ahead. 

I reached the top of another hill, Bryaxis before us, sniffing the ground and occasionally wrenching a poor vole or mouse out of the thicket in his jaws, and stopped in my tracks.

“Here we are,” Rhysand said, barely an inch from my elbow.

I would have moved, but it was cold, and he was warm, and my coat was too thin.

The shooting range sprawled out before us, unofficial and makeshift but still clearly functional. A row of targets stretched out for about twenty feet, each pocketed with holes. A locked shed was shoved off to the side, presumably containing an array of weaponry.

Rhysand leaned against the trunk of a stark, massive ash tree, arms crossed. “After you, Feyre darling.”

“You know,” I said, pulling out my pistol, “I’ve been wondering. Why do you care about my aim’s accuracy?”

“For my business purposes, of course.”

“Right,” I said. “So I’ll need to know how to shoot for the job I’m assisting you with.”

“Correct.”

I clicked off the safety. “I will not shoot a living being, Rhysand.”

“If you’re as good of a shot as you claim, you should be able to aim for the kneecaps,” he pointed out.

I lifted my hands, steadying my stance, and shot. 

A perfect hole appeared in the middle of the target. Rhysand straightened a bit.

“You saw me,” I said quietly. “On the floor of that cellar.” An ear-splitting  _ pop _ , and another circle appeared in the target, no more than a centimeter from the first. “You watched that bitch give me the knife, and”— _ pop _ —“you watched their blood pool on the floor.”

_ Pop, pop, pop. _

Funny, how it always came back to me here, fingers wrapped around a gun that I detested but carried out of  necessity and the scars that, unlike the cut on my cheek, would never fade.

Memories flickered in my peripheral vision, me at—

Fourteen, slapping cash down on the counter and getting a little pea-shooter in return,

Fourteen and a half, shooting Coca-Cola bottles in the backyard as Nesta watched from the porch, smoking and silent, Elain covering her ears inside,

Fifteen, when a man shoved me up against the wall on the way home from the club, and I pressed the gun to his belly and told him to go fuck himself,

Sixteen, when I hit all the Coca-Cola bottles on my first shot,

Nineteen, when Tamlin took me away, and I put the gun inside a box and threw away the key,

Nineteen and a half, when they grabbed me off the street,

Nineteen and a half again, when I smashed open the box that held my gun and pressed it to my chest, sobbing and weeping and damaged irreparably. 

_ Pop, pop, pop. _

I lowered my gun, chest heaving. 

Holes peppered the target, each within the bull’s-eye.

“No more,” I said. “No more blood.” 

Rhysand didn’t even look surprised. He flicked his gaze between me and the target, as if he’d expected all along that I could walk my talk, that I was made of sterner stuff than Tamlin or Lucien thought. 

Slowly, he nodded. 

“And,” I added, “I have more bullets left in here, so don’t even think about trying anything.”

“I thought we moved past that.”

I put on the safety and slid it into my pocket. “You can never be too careful.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is paranoia, Feyre darling.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What? ‘Feyre’?”

“No.” I gritted my teeth.  _ “Darling.” _

Rhys smiled at me. “Why? Is it Tamlin’s pet name for you?” His tone turned mocking, and I bristled.

“No. Tam and I don’t have pet names.”

“How disappointing.”

I scowled at him. “Why do you even care about Tamlin, anyway? It’s not as if our relationship has anything to do with you.”

In a blink, the carefree, joking Rhysand vanished, replaced by a creature even more feral than Bryaxis curled up by his feet. “Doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he repeated, so lethal that I flinched.

“Yes,” I said. “You don’t care.”

Rhysand’s lip curled. “Don’t tell me what I do or do not care about, Feyre. As it just so happens, I don’t particularly enjoy finding you soaking wet on the steps of the Met, pale and bruised to hell.” 

“Tamlin has nothing to do with my bruises.”

“Lovely little liar.”

Something inside of me broke in half, cracking with the echo of a broken twig. “I am not your pet project, Rhysand,” I snapped. “I don’t need your pity, and I sure as hell don’t want whatever your twisted definition of  _ care  _ is. I’ll work with you, because I made a deal, but my personal life is none of your concern.”

Rhysand’s face had gone blank, wiped clean. “Fine.”

“Fine.” I stomped back up the hill. “Let’s get out of here. I want to go home.”

He didn’t say a word, but started up the hill after me, Bryaxis loping alongside him. This time, the dog stayed far from my feet.

***

While we made our way through the hills, I paused atop a grassy knoll, Rhysand a few yards in front of me. 

Far off, buried in heather and knee-high grass, I caught a hint of carved marble—a gravestone, nestled between the hills, with an angel mounted on top. All I could see from here were the wings.

_ I swear on my sister’s grave. _

Perhaps in a different world Rhysand Black and I might have found common ground, shared in heartbreak and sisters that were no longer in our lives—either through death, or other reasons. Perhaps in a different world I would not know how to shoot, and I could close my eyes at night without hearing the woman scream. 

But that was not this world, and I, at least, had too many sharp edges, broken and battered as I was. Anyone that touched me drew blood on their own skin, spilling a trail of poppies through the snow.

***

The second Rhysand and I reached the farmhouse, he started cursing, fluently and expansively.

I stepped around him, alarmed. Three cars were parked in what passed for a driveway: a low-slung cherry-red Cadillac convertible, a glossy black Ferrari, and a nondescript blue BMW.

“What the—” I started, just as a piercing shriek sliced through the air.

_ “CASSIAN ILLYRIA! GET BACK HERE!” _

Rhysand lunged, slamming me to the ground. I had only a second to absorb the scent of jasmine and citrus and the warmth of his body, swearing, as—

As a man came bolting through the drive of the farmhouse, clinging onto the horns of a bucking, braying bull, screeching at the top of his lungs. Rhysand had pinned me down to avoid being flattened.

A few other people ran after the man—a blonde-haired woman that looked vaguely familiar and another nutmeg-skinned man—a petite woman sauntering behind them, laughing with a slender cigarette dangling from an ivory holder wedged between her fingers. 

_ “HELP ME!”  _ the man on the bull hollered. 

The petite woman laughed even harder.

“What the  _ hell _ ,” I said, wheezing under Rhysand’s weight, just as the bull flung the man off its ass, directly into a dense thicket of trees.

The cow bolted off, and the thicket rustled, the man rising from the grass, leaves and twigs in his hair. He vomited into the bushes as the blonde-haired woman and nutmeg-skinned man hurried after him, shouting expletives. 

“I’m fine,” the man said, before promptly pausing to vomit again. 

Rhysand pushed himself off me, face in his hands.

“Feyre,” he said, voice muffled, “meet my family.”   
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter: the Inner Circle. :D


End file.
